


Pharmakon

by pentagonbuddy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Companion Piece, M/M, Trans Linhardt von Hevring, gross fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25108741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy
Summary: Pharmakon:remedy / poisonOr, in less pretentious terms: the porny bits fromContagion.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Metodey
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is paired with [chapter 9 of Contagion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367366/chapters/60829540); Linhardt is pretty rude here and Metodey does a horrible thing to a handkerchief.
> 
> Linhardt is trans here, and there's fingering but not be any explicit references to his bits this time

Such a curious thing for Linhardt, to be conscious of the blood leaving his body. Metodey’s lips were fastened to his neck, sucking in a steady rhythm that fluttered his pulse and had him squeezing the handkerchief still in his hand.

A warm mixture of blood and vulnerary dripped between his fingers. It was grotesquely intimate, the way his body responded to Metodey’s fangs inside him and the knee between his legs, with an ache he hadn’t felt in so long that he forgot how distracting it was. He could imagine how hard he’d get if that knee rubbed up against him or if he rolled his hips down into it, though he didn’t have to imagine much. But if he moved right now it might hurt, and this was enough to keep him still, his breath hitched until Metodey snatched the handkerchief, pulled his fangs out, and pressed it to the wound.

Linhardt’s exhale was long and slow. Once the healing sting had faded, he closed his eyes so he didn’t have to watch Metodey suck the blood from the cloth. It did little to help the sound.

“That’s enough.” Linhardt kept his eyes closed.

The slurping stopped. 

He expected more kisses or at least a tongue on his neck again, but all that happened was he sank further into the cot when Metodey climbed off of him. Linhardt’s hand reached for whatever it could grab—a fistful of fabric, it turned out, which he tugged until Metodey loomed overhead with the blood-soaked handkerchief dangling from his mouth. Linhardt took it and set it on the pillow above him, out of his sight.

“I thought you were done,” Metodey said.

“...With the bites, yes.”

Linhardt slid one hand behind Metodey’s thigh and pressed his knee upwards. Even this slight pressure was enough for Linhardt to squirm, and an experimental roll of his hips yielded excellent results. Pleasure, yes, and Metodey adjusted so that it was easier to grind against his thigh. Linhardt kept expecting some smarmy comment about it, but only heard the cot creak and his own quiet sounds.

Had he always been this easy to please?

No, this sort of thing was such a pain to deal with alone—he couldn’t recall the last time he bothered—and he usually fell asleep in the middle when he tried. Not something to worry about under Metodey’s piercing gaze, which left him feeling disrobed and shivering in the open air even though his clothes were mostly intact. His bare chest was exposed, however, and while he’d thought that would catch Metodey’s attention, his eyes were riveted on Linhardt’s face.

“Quit staring.” Linhardt turned his own gaze to the wall.

“What should I do instead, hm?”

A difficult question. He hadn’t thought that far ahead and right now the thought in his mind was that rutting against Metodey’s thigh like this was embarrassing, first of all, and reminded him of his early work with fire—snapping his fingers over and over, frustrated when the spell wouldn’t catch yet knowing the potential was there. The heat smoldered in him, but it’d take some finess to draw out.

Articulating this was its own challenge. He started by trailing his fingers under the hem of Metodey’s tunic, sliding it up until his stomach was exposed, then pulling them flush against each other. There were scales along Metodey’s side that Linhardt ran his hands over, smooth in a different way from the scars he found and the occasional bumpy patch of skin.

Was that last one medically significant?

Linhardt opened his mouth to ask about it, but gasped instead when Metodey squeezed him and he realized somewhere along the way the thigh between his legs had been replaced by a clothed erection.

Friction was friction, so it wasn’t all that different from the thigh in theory, but in practice he grabbed Metodey’s hips and wondered how much better it’d feel without the fabric between them. At least this was less embarrassing now that Metodey looked just as red-faced and desperate—he could probably be satisfied with this mockery of penetration. In fact, he seemed close already as the pitch of his moans, muffled behind bit lips, rose with each thrust.

Where would that leave Linhardt? All hot and bothered after Metodey rolled over for a nap, probably. A few minutes ago, when this feeling was only a spark, he wouldn’t have minded, but now the thought spurred him to press his hand flat against Metodey’s chest and push him away.

“Wait,” Linhardt said, then guided Metodey’s hand between his thighs. “I’d rather do this.”

Metodey giggled, his voice thick like sweet syrup. What was there to laugh about? He was about to withdraw the offer when Metodey rubbed his palm where Linhardt ached the most.

“Use your fingers.” Though he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer, the question slipped out before he could stop himself. “And what’s so funny?”

“You’re always so calm.” Metodey pressed two of his fingers against Linhardt. “So composed.” It took some fumbling before he found a way to stroke them up and down without his claws catching on Linhardt’s trousers. “Mm, no, I’ve seen you afraid.”

“That—that’s funny?”

“Can be. But I never thought I’d see you like _this_.”

Metodey buried another quiet laugh into the crook of Linhardt’s neck, followed by languid kisses along his jugular, over the raised bumps from the earlier bites, up along his jawline until his earlobe was rolled between gentle teeth. All this nibbling, like he was a delicacy to savor.

For a moment Linhardt thought Metodey was drawing this out—maybe he had been—but once he found an angle that made Linhardt’s claws dig into his shoulder he kept at it. This persistence was what made a helping hand so worthwhile, because if it was just Linhardt then his own hand would’ve cramped by now and he’d have such a hard time cresting over that last hill where his body trembled and his back arched and that pleasant flame finally caught and flared enough for him to shudder, then melt against the blankets with his chest heaving—it was an awful lot of work.

He’d wrapped his leg around Metodey at some point; it slumped aside, limp along with the rest of his limbs. Their stomachs remained pressed together for quite some time until Metodey peeled himself away and the chill his absence left behind made Linhardt shiver. Even pulling his robes shut was too much effort; he waved Metodey back over and asked him to do it.

Metodey lingered at his side, watching him through half-lidded eyes, palming himself through his own trousers. It was the kind of scrutiny Lysithea had when she tried to sear a book into her memory and—Lysithea was on a list of people he never wanted to think about during moments like this. If he closed his eyes or looked away he was certain he’d see her red glare burning judgement into him. First he watched Metodey’s hand, but that encouraged Metodey to make a vulgar comment, tug his cock out, and stroke faster.

“You’re going to make a mess,” Linhardt said, looking up to his face, which was split apart with a nasty grin.

Metodey nodded.

“I told you not to get anything on me.” Linhardt sighed when his response was to tilt his hips away. “No, don’t—not on the blankets—”

His solution was to pluck the handkerchief from the pillow above Linhardt’s head and thrust into the bloodstained cloth.

A brief glance at that made Linhardt a little queasy, so he covered his mouth and dragged his attention back to Metodey’s face, which wasn’t much better. The pink tip of his tongue poked out between his lips, and despite his wide grin, there weren't any teeth showing, which turned it into a crescent maw that Linhardt didn’t want to think about on his body. It was hard to tell exactly when Metodey came—somewhere between the rolling eyes and choked gasps—but once he was done he flopped against Linhardt’s chest. 

Well. At least the mess was contained.

Linhardt tried to find solace in that as the haze around his thoughts dissipated. Aside from the business with the handkerchief, that had been...not bad. Enjoyable, even. There was much to consider as he ran his fingers through Metodey’s hair in slow, lazy strokes. He made a mental note to close his eyes towards the end if this happened again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't paired with a specific chapter of Contagion, aside from a vague sense of sometime between chapters 11-14. I just felt like writing it in my spare time! The thought of "it's pretty gross to bite someone else's nails" took hold of me and wouldn't let me go...

Metodey always slurped when he ate. If it wasn’t something he could slurp, then he’d smack his lips or chew with his mouth open, and tonight’s meal of soup with bread gave him ample opportunities for both. It wasn’t anything new for Linhardt—Metodey wasn’t that much worse than Caspar about table manners—but after an evening of gawking at blood samples with Hanneman and being prodded awake whenever he nodded off, Linhardt longed for a peaceful atmosphere.

How silly of him to think he’d find it here, sitting across from Metodey in this room under his office, cross-legged on a cot with a bowl of soup in his own lap.

No, he knew better than to expect peace or quiet around Metodey. But he’d gotten into the habit of eating dinner down here unless Lysithea was around, and so despite the irritation already knotted in his chest he’d settled in without a second thought. As his eye twitched from another wretched mouth sound, those second thoughts caught up to him.

He unfolded his legs, mindful of the soup in his hands, and climbed off the cot.

“Leaving already?” Metodey spoke through a mush of bread.

“You keep chewing with your mouth open.”

Metodey swallowed. “I’m hungry.”

Linhardt frowned not at the crumbs around Metodey’s mouth, but his own impulse to wipe them away with his thumb. “Then finish your dinner.”

“Sure, but—”

He leaned over and wiped them. “You don’t need me here for that.”

Metodey turned his head, held Linhardt’s thumb between his teeth, not biting down but firm enough to make an impression. “Yesh I do.”

His words came out as mush, too, thanks to the thumb in his mouth, but the way he tilted his head down and looked up through his eyelashes loosened the knot in Linhardt’s chest. It had been a rotten evening, hadn’t it? Perhaps that could change...

“You can’t keep draining me.” Linhardt pulled his hand away but set his bowl on a nearby shelf, where it clinked against a bottle. “It knocks me out for the whole day. Or night. Sometimes both.”

“Draining? No, no, just a taste. A sip.” Metodey licked his lips. “Is that too much?”

“Now that depends. How much is a sip to you? I suspect we use different measurements.”

“I’d stop when you told me to.”

Linhardt took one of the vulneraries from the shelf and sloshed the blue liquid inside. “What if I didn’t?”

“Er…”

“Well?” He glanced over his shoulder. “How would you know when you’ve had a sip?”

Metodey’s tongue peeked out while he clacked his claws against his bowl. After a moment he raised the bowl to his lips and took what he thought was a sip.

“I’d call that more of a gulp, personally,” Linhardt said.

“Alright, fine.” Metodey tapped his bowl faster. “Is a _gulp_ too much?”

“Enough to cause problems.”

A whine escaped Metodey’s nostrils. He started bouncing his leg and the soup threatened to spill over until Linhardt took it from him. “What sort of problems?”

Once Linhardt had set it aside, he leaned over the cot again and cupped Metodey’s face. “Ones I think you could help with.”

They had the initial process down to a science.

Metodey propped himself against the wall with pillows and Linhardt sat between his legs, his back to Metodey’s chest and a vulnerary-soaked handkerchief within reach. Linhardt had started bringing dark ones, old ones, sometimes just scraps of cloth—nothing he’d miss.

Once he’d settled, eager arms snaked around his waist and Metodey buried his face into Linhardt’s neck not for a bite, but to huff whatever he smelled there. Perfume, probably. He seemed to enjoy the scent regardless of what it was.

Linhardt shrugged out of his shirt enough to expose one shoulder, which made plenty of room to avoid stains. Metodey’s hands traveled his body, touching on landmarks here and there that made him gasp, wandering inside his shirt to grope him, settling near his waist after Linhardt lifted them from his chest. One hand massaged his thigh while the other brushed between his legs, and were it not for how difficult it’d be for Metodey to touch him without any accidental pokes from the sharp tips of his claws in this position…

“I really should trim your nails again.”

Metodey pulled away with a wet sound from a spot he’d been sucking at. “We could do that first. And then—”

“No, no, it’d take too long,” Linhardt said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Metodey returned to kissing his neck, accompanied by the occasional hum. Not long after, he pulled away again, enough to lean back against the pillows this time. “Give me your hand.”

Linhardt curled one of his hands against his chest. “Why?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

A dubious offer. Linhardt narrowed his eyes but held out his hand, then twisted around to watch Metodey lift it to his mouth. First he kissed the knuckles one by one, grinning all the while, then he uncurled one finger, pinched the claw-like nail between his teeth, and bit down at the edge. Once it snapped, he peeled it away.

Technically it helped, in the sense that as Linhardt watched Metodey repeat the process with a second finger, the arousal pooling in him evaporated. Confusion, curiosity, and disgust all fought to take its place—disgust won when Metodey nibbled the fingernails into his mouth like he was one of the office rats. Linhardt’s fingers—the index and middle ones, he noted—were left not with claws but a ragged edge. Metodey didn’t trim any more.

Why only those two?

An obvious answer presented itself. He grabbed Metodey’s chin in a way that allowed him to press the two fingers past his lips and smooth their edges across his teeth. When he tested their bluntness on Metodey’s gums, some of his lost arousal snuck up on him as Metodey took the fingers into his mouth and sucked.

“Must you be so nasty about everything?”

Occupied as he was, Metodey didn’t respond. Linhardt couldn’t help but notice how Metodey got a little harder at that, either from the words or the fingers sliding in and out of his mouth. Perhaps he had an oral fixation. Were it not for all the slurping, Linhardt would be more inclined to indulge it.

Instead, he slipped his fingers away, turning his hand over to see how they glistened in the lantern light. “Mind unlacing my trousers?”

“So you can fuck yourself?” Metodey’s tone was provocative, clearly seeking a reaction from the crass words and the way he twirled one claw around the drawstring of Linhardt’s trousers. If he thought that response would be doe-eyed shock, he was wrong.

Linhardt used his dry hand to finish undoing the knot, then slid the other one beneath the fabric. “Precisely.”

A laugh tickled against his neck and it didn’t hurt when Metodey’s teeth sank in afterward—nothing more than a brief pinch followed by warmth—but Linhardt pressed one finger inside himself so that he could focus on the pressure between his legs instead, how pleasure flowed between the fangs and his finger the way electricity arced between two points.

...It was difficult to enjoy after that initial jolt. Metodey had bitten the nails off his left hand, which didn’t seem like much of an issue until Linhardt was fondling himself as if he were a teenager again, clueless about his own body, but he couldn’t ask Metodey to do the other hand _now._

“I—I’m right-handed.” Inane words tumbled out anyway, followed by a gasp when the damp handkerchief stung his neck.

“I’m ambidextrous, you know. Comes in handy.” Metodey snorted at his own joke.

Was it a joke? Not much of one, if so, and Linhardt groaned at either the attempt or his fingers—he couldn’t tell.

How unfortunate it was that Metodey’s fangs felt so good in him. Without them, Linhardt was keenly aware of how awkward everything was while Metodey sucked blood from the handkerchief, as he was wont to do. Had that been a gulp, then? Not much at all…

“Do you want my help?” Metodey took his right hand this time and Linhardt nodded, which only resulted in a kiss on his palm. “What if I used my mouth, hm?”

Linhardt yanked his hand back. “Disgusting.”

“You sure? I think my tongue’s gotten longer.” Metodey licked a wet stripe from Linhardt’s collarbone to the base of his jaw, as if that demonstrated anything.

“Not after you just had blood in there, you savage.”

“It’s not _that_ odd. Don’t you bleed from—”

“No, I don’t, and if you mention blood again I’m leaving.”

That at least got Metodey to stop running his mouth, though it didn’t help the mood. Would a longer tongue? It was pleasant to imagine a velvet caress between his legs; he slipped his fingers out in favor of imitating the strokes from his thoughts. His touch was still clumsy but Metodey’s hands caressed his thighs and that helped, too, as did the teeth nipping at his neck. At first he thought he’d have to lecture Metodey about pestering him for more blood, but they were—they weren’t love bites, that phrase was a bit much.

It took longer than Linhardt cared for before he came, his fingers jerking in an inelegant rhythm while his body trembled under Metodey’s touch. Metodey was surprisingly patient, whispering tolerable—perhaps even enjoyable—obscenities into his ear about how fun it was to watch. The chatter continued even as Linhardt disentangled himself from Metodey and lied down on the cot.

“Mm, I’m going to sleep now.” Linhardt said, then shimmied closer to the wall.

The cot was still meant for only one person but it’d have to do, as going through all the fuss with the trapdoor and the table was far too much hassle when his limbs felt like jelly.

Despite the pleasant drowsiness, sleep eluded him once the cot started shifting. The accompanying soft slaps didn't help and he wasn’t sure if Metodey was trying to be quiet, but either way there wasn’t much to be done about the motion short of having him sit on the floor.

A huff made it into his tone as he rolled over and asked, “Are you almost done?”

Metodey looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Maybe with some help.”

...The sooner he finished, the sooner Linhardt could enjoy a nap, and one of his hands was already dirty, anyway, so he held it out and gestured for Metodey to turn around. Once he leaned against the pillows, Linhardt took hold of his cock. Perfunctory strokes were enough at first, but soon Metodey covered Linhardt’s hand with his own and guided him.

At that point it was basically masturbation again, wasn’t it?

Metodey seemed to think otherwise, as he babbled about the softness and how good it was even though he did all the work. It was curious, but comfortable, as Linhardt was still lying down with his eyes closed.

“Linhardt, ah, _Linhardt_ , Linha- _a-ah_ —”

The ensuing mess didn’t register until a wet warmth stuck to his skin—his eyes fluttered open to Metodey licking his hand in another moment of disgusting pragmatism. Slurping, of course, with a tongue that didn’t seem as long as he’d claimed.

After Metodey deemed his hand clean enough (Linhardt silently disagreed), the sucking turned to sloppy kisses against the veins of his wrist. His fingers twitched. 

Would it be better or worse if Metodey’s reverence was only for his blood, or perhaps the body that housed it?

Linhardt pulled his hand away and rolled over, facing the wall again. The cot squeaked when Metodey joined him, pressed against his back with arms that pulled him closer the way he’d cling to his own pillows. A simple comfort, easy to feel with most anyone or anything soft enough, and he’d rather be thought of as a pillow than comfort food.

“You didn’t finish your dinner,” Linhardt mumbled.

“Neither did you.”

“I’m not hungry,” he lied.

Metodey squeezed him. “Neither am I.”


End file.
